2. JT

CHAPTER 2

JT

“Be ready in thirty, Brick. No excuses.”

“Ready for what?” I ask, not even bothering to roll over so I can talk to Ollie face-to-face. “And don’t call me Brick.”

We do this little ritual all the time. He opens my door without knocking, starts talking, and I listen, even if it looks like I’m asleep.

In my defense, I worked outside in the heat all day before heading to the gym for weight and flexibility training. Sleep sounds pretty good right now. So does staring blankly at the wall until my muscles stop screaming.

Whatever Ollie has cooked up that’s due to start in thirty minutes—which could be anything from getting matching tattoos to building a mud-wrestling pit in the backyard—does not sound good.

I’ll get roped into it; I almost always do. As the team’s goalie, it’s in my nature to keep to myself and do my own thing. I’m part of the team, no doubt, but I’m content to do my part on my own.

No one else subscribes to my philosophy. Not my captains or the rest of my teammates. And especially not Ollie.

He’s a born joiner and he won’t stop until he’s got us all doing some group activity. You’d think he’d give up after he dragged us all to goat yoga last spring—and we got kicked out less than half an hour in.

But Ollie Jablonski’s as stubborn as they come.

He’s not giving up—not on assigning us all nicknames we don’t want or on being the social director for the team.

So, no matter how much I’m looking forward to taking a nap, fueling up with some carbs, and binge-watching reruns until I fall back asleep, I’m probably going along on whatever adventure Ollie’s hatched. Unless I can get out of it. My five-a.m. alarm will start blaring before I know it.

“Dude. Where are your swim trunks?”

I turn over to find Ollie rooting through my drawers. Before I can answer or tell him to get his damn hands off my clothes, Mickey walks in holding a bag of popcorn.

Fan-fucking-tastic. I love the guy, but any downtime I was hoping to get tonight is officially off the agenda.

“He doesn’t own board shorts,” Mickey says, tossing a few kernels in the air and catching them in his mouth.

“I call bullshit.” Ollie narrows his gaze at me. “You’re at the pool three times a week. You make the whole damn locker room smell like chlorine.”

“Yeah, he swims, but he doesn’t wear board shorts.”

Since I obviously don’t need to contribute to this conversation, I take the opportunity to pop my fist in the air, knocking the paper popcorn bag loose from Mickey’s grip. I help myself to a handful before he realizes it’s missing and swipes it back. Two pieces go flying, so I swing my neck out and turn to catch them before they fall to the floor.

We don’t own a vacuum. What else am I supposed to do?

Ollie spins to face us. “You’re telling me he skinny-dips in the pool three times a week, and nobody says shit? Because that’s crap. I got in so much fucking trouble for that freshman year. And it was only once. And I wasn’t even naked. I was wearing a jockstrap. ”

“Yeah, but it was on your head. That doesn’t count.” Van says, poking his head in the doorway because my room is now Grand Central Station. “What time are we leaving?”

“Twenty minutes. Tell Santos to get his hairy ass moving.”

Van tilts his head back into the hallway about three inches. “Pete,” he yells. “Ollie said to get your hairy ass moving!”

His mission accomplished, he salutes us and moves down to his room to get ready. The guy lives in a glorified closet—it doesn’t even have windows. As a senior, he totally could have commandeered my room or the one on the other side of his. But he said he wasn’t gonna make me move and that the new guy could have the big room at the end of the hall.

He’s a good guy. All my roommates are.

I just don’t feel like being social tonight.

“Holy shit,” Ollie croons, punctuating his statement with a wolf whistle. I don’t have to turn toward my closet to know he’s found my swim bag.

“Put them back,” I say. “Tomorrow’s a pool day.”

Ollie ignores me, holding my jammers up like a trophy before tossing them at me. “I wondered if you’d be a banana hammock guy, but I think the skintight bike shorts are even sexier. Get naked, then put those on. We ride in ten.”

I shake my head. “First of all, I don’t need instructions on how to get dressed. And second, hell no. I’m not going swimming with you guys. I’d drown.”

Mickey looks up from where he’s buried his face in the popcorn bag. “You’re a certified lifeguard.”

“Yes. And I’d drown myself before taking a swim with all of you.”

Ollie just laughs. “Good thing we’re not going swimming. Suit up, Brick. It’s almost time to motherfucking gooo.”

With that, Ollie’s out the door, but Mickey’s still here, spinning himself around in my desk chair while simultaneously tossing popcorn in his mouth. He reaches for each catch like a seal, and I can’t look away. This shit’s better than TV .

Brannon Mikalski is the first guy I met at Bainbridge. We roomed together last year and decided to move into the hockey house together this year. Mickey’s…Mickey. He’s got more energy than he knows what to do with, and he never remembers to take his meds. Half the time, he purposely dodges them just to get into a hyper-focused headspace. It’s great while it lasts, but the crash is inevitable. Still, he’s as loyal as they come, and that’s a rare trait in my experience.

“This chair is fucking awesome,” he says with genuine enthusiasm. “I need a chair like this.”

The last thing Mickey needs is the dorm room equivalent of a Sit-and-Spin, but that’s not my call. Come to think of it… “I will trade you chairs if you let me go back to sleep.”

“Ollie would just drag your ass out,” he says, shrugging.

“Out where? And why the hell are you all wearing swim trunks if we’re not going swimming?”

Mickey tips the bag back and opens his mouth, letting the unpopped kernels fall in. He sucks the synthetic butter off them, then spits them back into the bag and tosses it into my trash can.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

All I want is a nap.

“There’s a beach party at Kappa. Hot girls. Bikinis. And all the lukewarm beer we can drink.”

“Pass,” I say, pulling a blanket over my head. It’s nearly ninety degrees out, and our air conditioner is mediocre at best, but maybe if they can’t see me, they’ll forget I live here and go on without me?

A guy can hope.

It’s not that I hate parties, and believe me, I have nothing against girls in bikinis. But my life consists of three things right now: eating, sleeping, and playing hockey. In a couple days, I’ll have to add taking classes into the mix, and that leaves no room for stale beer, frat parties, or, sadly, scantily clad college girls. I haven’t been a saint or anything, but at this stage of my life, hockey comes first, followed closely by school. Sleep is a necessity I haven’t found an alternative to, but my left hand gets the job done just fine, so sex isn’t really a priority for me these days.

Mickey whips the blanket off of me and tosses it on the floor. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty. You haven’t gone out with us all summer. And classes start in a couple days. You’re ripped as fuck. Girls go nuts for that shit. Might as well get something out of all the time we spend in the gym and on the ice.”

I stand and fold my blanket before placing it at the edge of my bed. “Uh…we damn near got a national championship a few months ago. Pretty sure that beats the hell out of hooking up in a frat house basement.”

Mickey shakes his head. “They’ve got a nice basement. And I love hockey, but not near as much as I love pus?—”

“Roll call!” Ollie’s voice carries through our house. Hell, they can probably hear him all the way at the other end of Jock Block. “Frankie! Frankie! Frankie!”

“What the hell? Who’s Frankie?” I ask.

“The freshman. Well, one of them. Will Franconetti. It’s his first night at college. And his first party. We must pop his party cherry together. As a team.”

“That sounds so wrong in so many ways,” I sigh, giving in. I reach for my deodorant and slip my feet into slides. I grab my jammers off the bed and take the shot, arcing them into the air and, ultimately, into my gym bag. “Fine, I’ll go. But I’m staying for an hour, and I’m wearing what I’ve got on.” My BU basketball shorts are soft and worn, and if they kick me out for not wearing proper swim attire, well, I’ll just consider myself lucky.

“Yes!” Mickey pumps his fist into the air like getting me to go to a party is some kind of feat. And okay, it is. “Lemme grab a snack and then we’ll go.”

I laugh and follow him downstairs. The guy’s a bottomless pit. But when he tosses me a protein bar, I tear off the wrapper, take a bite, and head for the door.

Ollie takes one look at my shorts and starts to open his mouth. But then he looks at my face and nods. “Fine,” he concedes. “But I’m taking ten points off for dress code violation.”

“Noted,” I say, chomping on the rest of my snack. I have no clue where the hell he’s getting these points from and what the hell they mean, so losing ten doesn’t feel like a big deal.

We’re all lined up at the door like we’re in goddamn kindergarten and about to venture off to the water fountain. Ollie’s clearly the Line Leader, and he’s doing inspections.

“Rosco, pick one: ball cap or shades. Wearing both makes you look douchey.”

Ryan Roscowitz stares Ollie down. “You are literally wearing a backwards cap and the same Oakleys I’ve got on.”

Ollie shrugs. “I look good. You look like a tool. Santos, ditch the shirt. Nobody wears a t-shirt to a pool party.”

“I don’t wanna get a sunburn,” Pete shrugs, laughing.

“It’s almost ten p.m. And you’re the tannest one out here. Hell, Norris bakes in the sun at his landscaping job, and you work at an ice rink, but he’s fucking pasty compared to you.”

Pete tears off his gray tee and tosses it on the couch. I hold back a laugh because there’s no real difference now that he’s taken his shirt off. He’s the hairiest guy I’ve ever seen.

“Jesus!” Ollie mutters, shielding his eyes. “Never mind. Put the t-shirt back on.”

Pete lets out his signature howl. “Nope. Once it’s off, it can’t go back on. Let’s go!”

We troop out of the house and cross Thurston Street. A couple minutes later, Kappa comes into view. They’ve got fairy lights and tiki torches everywhere, illuminating a giant bounce house they’ve managed to turn into a slip n’ slide .

A girl in a coconut bra and grass skirt is pouring beers from the keg and she hands us two.

I take a sip and survey the scene. They’ve got a deejay and a dance floor on one side of the lawn, a bunch of kiddie pools next to the bounce house, and what looks to be a beach volleyball court on the far end of the yard.

It’s bad that my first thought is how glad I am that I don’t have to clean any of this shit up, right?

Like, that’s not a normal thought for a nineteen-year-old guy.

But I’ll be twenty next year, so maybe that helps?

Half an hour later, I’m nursing my second beer when Mickey approaches and loops a few leis around my neck. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

“No. And where the fuck did these come from?”

“Keely—no, Kaylie. Kylie? Coconut girl.”

I nod absently, reaching for the leis to give them back to him. “Go get lei’d, Mickey. I’m heading back. Ollie’s playing strip volleyball, however the fuck that works, so he won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“Dude. You can’t leave yet. We just got here.” Mickey looks shocked that I’d even suggest ditching this fake island paradise for the comfort of my bed and the background noise of my TV, not to mention the food in the fridge.

“You said one hour. That means you can’t leave for…twenty-seven more minutes. Follow me.” He grabs the leis around my neck and drags me across the lawn to where Santos and Van are lounging on lawn chairs by a kiddie pool and sipping fruity drinks with umbrellas in them.

“Norris wants to go back to the house,” Mickey bitches, letting go of my leis and slumping down onto a beach towel like a kid tattling on his wayward sibling.

“I’m not his dad, so what do you want me to do about it?” Van asks as he pours something from a shaker into a little plastic cup. He tops it with a slice of pineapple before handing it over to Mickey, placating my buddy just enough that he stops glaring at me.

“You want one before you hit the road?” Pete asks. “The beer’s crap, so Ollie brought provisions. But he’s playing naked volleyball, so…”

“I thought it was strip volleyball?” Van asks, offering me a drink.

“Yeah, but Ollie sucks at volleyball.”

I laugh and take the cup. “This is pretty good. Can I go now?”

“No,” Mickey answers, just as Van and Santos say, “Yeah.”

“It’s Will’s first party,” Mickey explains. “You can’t leave yet.”

I look around to see a few girls in bikinis, a guy wearing a bike helmet and floaties, and us. “If that’s the logic we’re going with…where’s Will?”

Santos mixes a drink for some of our new guests. “He went inside to dance. Last I heard, he was making out with Chelsie from Sig Delt.”

“Cool. So…” I’m about to repeat my request to leave for the four hundredth time tonight, but the words never come. I’m suddenly distracted. There are well over two hundred people here, easy. But I don’t notice any of them. The music is blaring from giant speakers on the porch, but I couldn’t name the song that’s playing. My buddies are talking, but I’ve tuned out their conversation. All my attention is aimed at the woman standing about twenty feet away. She didn’t get the beach party memo, or maybe, like me, she just didn’t care. But I’m not complaining because the short black dress hugs every curve on her compact frame. Her long blonde hair curls over her shoulders, and her blue eyes meet my hazel ones.

I don’t look away; I can’t.

Her cheeks are flushed, and she turns to talk to her friend. When she glances back in my direction, I offer half a smile .

“Who is that?” I ask, needing an answer and not caring who offers it.

But I don’t get an answer. I turn back around to see Santos and Mickey playing bartender to a group of girls. Van’s hanging back in his lounger, just watching the crowd.

“Do you know her?” I ask, pointing my cup in the direction of the blonde goddess who’s now in profile.

“The tiny one who’s hanging onto Jake Lanza like a koala?”

I shake my head. “Next to her. The short blonde.”

“Nah. I’ve never seen her before. But the koala is Viv McDonald. She’s a cheerleader. Maybe the blonde is, too?”

I shrug, because I have no clue what sport she’s into or even what her name is. But holy hell, she’s perfection, and I can’t take my eyes off her.

A group surrounds her, and they’re all talking animatedly, but she’s not paying much attention. Sure, she’s nodding her head and smiling when everybody else does the same, but her reaction time is just a bit off.

I think that’s my fault and I’m not sorry about it. She keeps catching my gaze, and I’m drawn into her orbit. When she licks her lips before wrapping them around her straw, my cock gets hard.

In basketball shorts.

In fucking public.

Jesus.

No wonder my friends like parties so much.

I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to another person before in my life. I don’t just want to talk to her; I need to. It’s like the mysteries of the universe will remain unsolved if I don’t learn her name, make her laugh, or feel her lips on mine.

Christ. How strong is this drink?

I shake my head and take a breath, but when I scan the crowd again, my eyes find hers immediately .

Without thinking about it or even saying goodbye to my housemates, I start moving in her direction.

I’m about halfway to her circle of friends when cheers erupt from the volleyball court. I look over, momentarily distracted by the wave of naked people as they mix back in with the rest of the partygoers.

And just like that, my pretty blonde soulmate is gone, swallowed up by a sea of college students.

I should walk away and head back to the house like I’ve been planning to since we left.

But our attraction isn’t one-sided. I could feel her eyes on me. And yeah, the short distance between us has been inundated with a crowd of nudists in the last few seconds, but I’m unbothered.

Most of my waking moments are spent looking out into a space crowded with bodies moving in all directions. And my only job is to find what I’m looking for.

And I always do.

Can I find a gorgeous blonde in a mob of college students?

Hold my beer—er, rum punch.

I’ve been training my whole damn life for this moment.